Dies Irae
by x Rajah x
Summary: Post-RENT. Mimi has died, and Roger went back to Santa Fe, leaving a gaping rift in his friendship with Mark. Roger got a record deal and tried to move on, but a twist of events and a project will bring the family together... one last time. :
1. To Days of Inspiration

**IMPORTANT NOTES:**

So… I'm back. I went on a little vacation from fanfiction. I kinda missed it. So I decided to make a comeback.

Here's the lowdown: I'm terrified about posting this. It may sound ridiculous, but I'm very self-conscious about my writing, even though it may not seem like it. I never have any trouble posting random crackfics or humor stories, because those aren't taken seriously anyway. So I want this to become my first ever full-length RENT fic that isn't like that, and actually my second ever full-length non-humor fic in general.

I need support on this, guys.

But at the same time, I'm SO AMPED to write this. I have been wanting to write this story for basically forever. It's one of those plot bunnies that nested in my mind and never went away.

**Title:** Dies Irae

**Genre:** Angst/Drama

**Rating:** T

**Extended summary:** After Mimi's death, Roger ran away to Santa Fe, leaving a gaping rift in his friendship with Mark. He had landed a record deal with Desert Fire Records, a local-based company and put out some songs. Joanne and Maureen moved into town a few months after Roger did, Joanne following a job offer for a high-paying law firm in New Mexico and Maureen following Joanne. Roger is in close contact, especially with Maureen. He, however, rarely calls Mark and Collins in New York. A project brings the bohemian family together one last time...

**What I Want to Achieve with This Story:** Write a full-length RENT fic that isn't in the humor genre. Manage to write a story during most of which, Mark and Roger are not on such good terms. Try to establish a close friendship between Roger and Maureen. Familiarize myself with Maureen's character a bit and grow to love her more. (She's not exactly my fave.) Make you cry. (That's a big maybe...)

* * *

_**PRESENT (1991) **_

_Beep, beep, beep, beep._

The alarm sounded in the silence of the arid, desert home. A raspy groan punctuated the abrupt smack as the alarm was shut off, and the man sprawled upon the couch awakened.

He stared at the insides of his eyelids for a few agonizingly long moments, content to let the seconds slip by.

With a cough, Roger Davis sat up, hair mussed from sleep. Stretching, he stood slowly, making his way through the cluttered room. A shiver completely unrelated to the stale breeze that stirred and rustled through the cracked window ran down his spine as he idly took in the spotty sunlight streaking in from outside. Squinting, he selected the chipped mug of his choice and began to drowsily prepare a cup of coffee. He coughed again, glancing sideways out the dust-coated window of the vacant, dilapidated desert shack beyond the hills, on the outskirts of the city.

Without conscious thought, he reached for the phone.

* * *

_**TWO WEEKS EARLIER**_

Roger pressed his forehead to the cool window of the Santa Fe Transit Authority bus, staring blankly out at the blighted landscape, and the looming edifices of downtown Santa Fe. A sudden pang tightened his face and he closed his eyes, just as the bus pulled to a noisy halt outside the large corporate office of Desert Fire Records.

Steely resolve filling him, he forced himself to edge through the crowded aisle and step out onto the sidewalk, squinting in the sunlight that suddenly bombarded him. It was late morning. With a nonchalant glance at his watch, he entered the swivel doors. He rode the elevator to the sixth floor and entered the office with barely a thought straying into his mind.

Most of the space of the office was open, segmented by shelves that were lined with pictures of musical artists in contract at Desert Fire. Roger sat down in one of the stiff chairs and pulled out a somewhat wrinkled sheet of paper, followed by a pencil.

"Done?" A voice rang out as George Gardener rounded the corner with a velocity that startled Roger from his empty line of thoughts.

George half-smiled as Roger turned to look at him. "Close to done?" He amended.

"I'm working on it." Roger answered quietly, voice strained and hoarse. "I'm thinking of adding a little guitar solo bit after the first chorus and..."

"Forget the guitar solo, Davis." George snapped suddenly, looking at Roger seriously and chomping on his gum. "Who said you could write in a solo?"

"Well, I..." Roger began, annoyed.

"No, Davis." George cut in, frustrated. "Look, I've been in the business much longer than you. I know what sells. And at this point, it ain't you. So if you want a future with Desert Fire, you'd better mind yourself. No guitar solos. Do as I tell you, and then, only then... I'll make you a star." Roger bit his lip, trying to keep his temper in check.

"Mr. Gardener..." He started, but a cough tickled his throat and he stopped.

"Listen, Davis. I want you to write a powerhouse song. No more pussy little weepy love songs. I want an anthem to propel you up the ladder, you know what I'm saying?"

"I was going to start writing something new next Monday, but..." Roger managed to croak.

"Trust me, fans like rock anthems. Something huge. No more pulling heartstrings, that approach ain't selling any records. I want you to bust some guts, Roger."

Sick of being interrupted, Roger stared vehemently at his boss, muscles bunching in his jaw as he listened to him talk. He dared a quick glance out the small window, peering at the thick, loud traffic in the street below. The sky was a blanket of hazy blue, the sun beating relentless down upon them. He suddenly felt nauseated by it all.

"Roger?" George's voice made its way to his ears, and he turned sharply. "Did you hear me? I said my manager, Bryan Burke, wants to meet with you. His office is up on the next floor, as you probably remember. Now, I'm sorry man, but I think I might know what this is about."

Roger stood, his knees feeling slightly weak and his head spinning.

"He is pretty... well, displeased with your apparent lack of progress in the company. Personally, I hope he gives you a second chance, because I think you could make it big. He thinks you're not writing and producing good material fast enough."

"He's right." Roger replied softly. "I'm not."

George put a hand on Roger's shoulder and he shivered involuntarily as his boss said, "Not the right attitude to have, man. You really could make it in the business... move out of that shitty dump you live in, go on trips all over the world, meet a new girl, buy her nice clothes..."  
Roger winced, then whispered, "You mean I could sell out?"

George frowned. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean by that. Tell me something, Roger. What did you have in mind for yourself when you signed on to Desert Fire?"

"I'm starting to wonder that myself." Roger's voice was suddenly clear and louder. "Now if you'll excuse me, you said I had a meeting?" And he strode from the room, fuming.

A few minutes later he was walking through pockets of cubicles to a tiny desk, at which sat a smiling blonde secretary.

"Good morning." She chimed at him. Scowling, he failed to answer. Before she inquired as to his business there, the door behind her opened and out stepped Bryan Burke, a well-tailored man in his late forties.

"Mr. Davis!" He waved, motioning Roger over to the door that led to his spacious work space. "Come on in, have a seat."  
Roger's feet carried him toward Mr. Burke and into the room, and he sank sullenly into yet another uncomfortable chair. Bryan sat down across from him, behind the desk and motioned to several containers and a jug nearby. "Orange juice? Croissant?"

"No, thank you very much, Mr. Burke." Roger said flatly, eyeing the man warily. He hadn't spoken with him since first signing the contract about eight months previous. Mr. Burke's eyes were wandering over Roger and he snapped from thought as he said, "What are you on?"

"Excuse me?" Roger asked, bemused.

"How much weight have you lost? I mean, wow."

"Oh." Roger waved a hand uneasily. "Nothing. About fifteen pounds..." He looked up at Bryan, smiling lackadaisically. "I just haven't been very hungry." He finished feebly.

"How's your girlfriend?" He asked.

He lowered his eyes, cringing. "When I went back to New York to find her nine months ago..." he emphasized the time to display his annoyance. "She was very sick. Now? She's dead."

Bryan nearly choked on a chunk of croissant and swallowed hastily. "Damn. I'm so sorry, Roger. I didn't know, I wondered why you came back to Santa Fe, but I always assumed you brought her with you."

"No." Roger replied, with difficulty. Then, he took a breath, shaking his head. "Two of my friends from New York moved here though. My friend Maureen moved in just outside the city with Joanne, her girlfriend. Joanne got offered a better job out here and Maureen just wanted to be with her... and keep tabs on me, I guess."

Mr. Burke nodded. "Jefferson? The lawyer? She's becoming a well-known name around these parts. Good for her."

The fake kindness was really starting to get to Roger. "Yes." He said tersely. "I'm glad this law firm gave her a higher paying job than the other one. She deserves it for how hard she works." He decided to move forward with the conversation. "Mr. Gardener told me that Desert Fire collectively hates my songwriting methods. Is this true?"

"Well, sort of... I..." Bryan shifted in his seat. "You sure you don't want a croissant?"

Roger shook his head slowly, started to feel angered by the events of the morning. Bryan wrapped the remains of his croissant in a napkin and tossed it in the trash, clearing his throat.

"Desert Fire is losing steam. We can bring in a whole new group of fans, a wave of them, rushing to buy something tangible and something big. Like a real powerhouse song, Roger. But you won't change."

"Getting fans and making money isn't why I like to write songs, Mr. Burke." Roger spoke, the queasy feeling returning. "Maybe it was back when I was young and stupid. Now, my something real and tangible is my songs I've been writing."

Mr. Burke sighed. "We're all sacrificing for the good of the company, Roger. Whether we like it or not, we are."

"I'm not." Roger stated bluntly. "I won't."

"I know." The older man answered. "Which is part of the reason our record sales have been declining at a steady rate recently."

"You can't pin that all on me. Desert Fire started tanking noticeably about a year and a half ago. I've been here eight months, Mr. Burke!" Roger exclaimed heatedly.

"Maybe that's too long."

"Maybe it is." Roger said, voice almost hopeful, but still angered by it all.

"It's too long, Roger." Mr. Burke confirmed quietly. Roger simply nodded and stared blankly, which seemed to unnerve him considerably. He continued, "Look, I did some digging and found out that with your dise-..., I mean your... _condition_ in mind, you can recieve some benefits even after you leave. I got you six months regular salary and medical, too. All covered because you managed to release a single that made it to the charts. It'll help you, Roger. Give you some time to find another job."

He looked at Roger, rattled by the blankness on his face. Taking a sip of his orange juice, he leaned back in his chair.

"When Mimi died and I left all my friends, everything I had left to care about back in New York," Roger began softly. "My friends were worried about me. My roommate was concerned because I was... never emotional. I didn't even cry at her funeral. Maureen asked me about it and I tried to explain that she had sucked all the emotion from me. When you love someone, I guess that can happen to you. Make you afraid. Make you not want to feel anything."

Bryan leaned forward, trying to figure out what to say.

"You're from New York, aren't you?" Roger continued drily. "Used to play in your own band at CBGB's. Made a name for yourself there, then moved out here to get rich."

Bryan lit up a bit at mention of his old band, not catching the scathing tone of Roger's statement. "Yeah! It was a blast."

"How old were you when you left?" He asked. "A young successful rock musician about to become a businessman?"

"Let's see... I guess I was twenty five."

"Twenty five. I was twenty one when I found my ex-girlfriend dead in my bathroom. Slit her wrists. She was HIV positive and she wasn't willing to go on."

Bryan made a strange face, obviously not liking where this conversation was headed.

"Then after I met Mimi, one of my other good friends, Angel died of AIDS. It was like slowly watching my own future play out before me, Mimi's too. I think about her still."

Wanting this to end, Bryan stops Roger with a raised hand. "Listen, maybe I can pull some strings and get you a year's salary."

"I hate this job." Roger cut in, disgusted.

"What are you talking about? You love making music. I know you do."

"I came back out here to get away. To start a new life and try to be happy again. But from the day I signed that piece of paper to today, I have hated this."

Perplexed, Bryan watched as Roger stood and pushed himself from his chair. "Then it sounds like I'm doing you a favor by letting you go then, Mr. Davis. Now you're free to go out and do whatever you like. I'm doing you a real favor."

"It may sound that way." Roger told him, eyes rising to meet his. "But my life has never been about what I like or don't like. You obviously weren't listening to my story, were you?"

"I didn't know there'd be a pop quiz, Roger. I wasn't preparing myself to unravel some puzzle of your life or pass some test. I don't have time to sort out the lives of all my clients." Bryan said, sounding irritated.

"Mr. Burke, life is a test." Then, he briskly changed the subject. "Thanks for everything." Roger extended a hand and Bryan accepted, shaking it.

"Well, I suppose I feel better about this now." He smiled, looking down at Roger's hand.

Roger released the man's hand and said, "Good. That's what I was hoping for." With a half-eye roll that Mr. Burke didn't notice, he added, "I have one favor to ask though."

"What can I do for you, Roger?"

"Like you said, I released my first and only successful single here five months ago. There are hundreds of framed single covers in this and in Mr. Gardener's office. I know you have mine. I was wondering if maybe I could have that?"

Bryan recoiled a bit. "Um... well, I... those... I mean, we usually don't let the clients keep their work in that respect. We want to preserve the history of the company. Those out on display let the world know what we've accomplished. You know? Maybe I can get Mr. Gardener to make a copy of yours and send it to you? How about that?"

Roger didn't reply.

He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. You go out there and pick out the single you want and take it. We'll make a copy of it for us, I'll have Rita scan one off the computer records."

"Thank you."

"It's the least I can do."

"Yes it is."

Before he knew it, Roger was walking out of Desert Fire Records, cradling the sole surviving physical representation of his life thus far in Santa Fe. Sweating, he walked slowly toward the transit stop, grasping the frame tightly in his fingers. The queasy feeling returned in a tidal wave and cascaded over him. He coughed, his lungs aching for breath.

People swarmed around him on the sidewalk, blurred and indistinct. Trying to orient himself, he stopped. A shaking hand let set the frame down on the sidewalk in front of him as he paused by the side of the building. He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling like a huge weight was crushing on his chest.

Roger tried vacantly to lean against the wall, but stumbled. He heaved for breath, and his vision failed him.  
With a tiny sigh of pain, he fell forward into the cement, crushing the frame and the story of his Desert Fire career beneath him.

* * *

He felt a prickle of pain jolt through his arm and a rush of liquid relief and solace suddenly began to caress him. Roger tried to sit up, but fell back softly against the starchy sheets of the hospital bed, blinking.

"That took care of the pain?" A female voice asked as she finished adjusting the IV poked in his arm. Roger turned to see the blurry form of a nurse standing beside him, smiling. In her hands, she held a tray of food. Setting it down on the table beside him, she eyed him carefully, waiting for an answer.

Roger sighed contentedly. "I could kiss you."

She laughed, and his vision cleared significantly. He couldn't help but smile when he saw that she had long, wavy brown hair the color of toffee, very similar to how Mimi's had been.

She lifted the cover off the food tray and motioned to it. "Are you hungry?"

He shook his head. "How should I know? I'm in painless bliss right now. Can't feel a thing, including whether or not my stomach is growling."

She ignored him, her professional opinion obviously being that he should eat. Pressing a tiny blue button, she raised the back of his bed so he was propped up well, and fluffed his pillows.

"What would you do if you had been given less than a year to live?"

She froze, looking down at him with a small, sad grin. "I would eat a lot of junk food. Chocolate. And I'd quit nursing. I've always loved to cook. I'd love to be a chef or something…" She stopped then, her face taking on an air of shock, as if she'd said too much.

Roger replied, "Good for you."

"What would you do?" She asked kindly.

"I'd open up a restaurant." He answered quite suddenly, hardly knowing why he said so himself, but liking how it sounded once it escaped his lips.

"What kind of restaurant?" She asked politely, but Roger thought he saw real curiosity in her eyes.

With a pang, he remembered the Life Cafe. "Have you ever been to New York?"

"No."

"Oh, well. I've got it all planned out in my mind." He said, realizing abruptly that he did. "It's like a big puzzle with pieces all over the place waiting to come together and make sense, you know? All I need is to go through the rest of design and review... and of course get permission. Call the planning commission and city council."

"Where will it be?"

The words tumbled from his mouth with ease. "I live on this shithole excuse for a lot just outside of town." He told her. "I'll stay with some friends. We'll get permission, tear down that rotting pile of wood, and build something beautiful."

She smiled softly again, helping him put the tray of food on his lap and gently handing him a plastic fork. "No one's really said you have less than a year, have they?"

"I have pneumonia. PCP, they call it. It's fucking with my lungs and I'm HIV positive. They haven't pretended to offer any treatment. Just told me I'll be prescribed meds for the pain. Tell me, when would you start your junk food binge? When would you leave this hospital?"

Taken aback, her eyes fell to meet his. "Can you open up a restaurant by yourself in less than year?"

"Who said I'd be alone?"

She grinned whimsically. "Okay, even then. You're not an architect, are you? Can you build and open a real restaurant, and do it even though you're sick?"

"I can die trying." Roger told her resolutely.

She pursed her lips and then told him, "Good for you." She bent down and laced her fingers in his, squeezing his hand. "I hope you do it, Mr. Davis."

He looked down at her hand in his, face frozen.

Suddenly startled, she withdrew her hand. "I'm sorry... I don't know why... I just..."

"No, its fine. Don't worry." He assured her, lips pulling into a ghost of a smile.

"Are you sure?" She asked him seriously.

"You have to touch your patients. Its part of your job description."

"I didn't have to do that." She told him. "I wanted to."

He looked at her. "What's your name?"

"Lena." She told him softly.

"Thank you, Lena."

She appeared not to have heard him. "Send me a menu when the restaurant opens. I'll be first in line."

"Of course." He murmured, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

"Goodnight then, Mr. Davis."

"Roger."

"All right…" She revised. "Roger." Then, like clockwork, her pager rang. With a quick smile at Roger, she sped from the room.

The other patient sharing the room with Roger awoke as she brushed past his bed.

"I'm hungry."

"I'm touched." Roger replied.

Then he laughed. Chuckles tumbled from dry, gravelly lungs, as he stabbed the unidentifiable hospital food mush with the fork.

-~-~-~-~-~

_**PRESENT**_

The camera stopped filming, though Mark failed to notice, as he'd also failed to notice that he'd been filming a rotting wood chair leg the whole time in the first place.

Tom Collins sat in the chair beside him, gazing at him curiously. "Mark, what's going on with you?" He asked abruptly, stirring the filmmaker from his empty line of thought.

He stared blankly at the chair leg, wondering silently at how it was just holding up under the pressure of the aging, tainted structure.

"What do you mean?"

Collins sighed, taking a sip of his own coffee. "Bullshit, Mark. You know exactly what I mean… you barely talk anymore. You haven't made any more films, you only eat in bite-size portions, and you sit for hours up here doing nothing."

Mark's blue eyes finally locked onto Collins, looking unabashed. "I don't understand, Collins. What are you asking me?"

"Why are you doing this?" Collins demanded softly.

Mark was no longer meeting Collins' gaze, gazing beyond him at something only he could see. "Doing what?"

Collins' eyes hardened, and before he could elaborate, Mark whispered, voice small and quiet. "Collins, I'm alone."

"What?" Collins questioned, confused. His inquisitive brown eyes swept from his friend to the untouched cup of coffee before him. "What do you mean, 'alone'? Mark, you're not alone at all, you have your old pal Collins... you have... me..." He broke off at the look on Mark's face, the voice dying on his lips as he finished lamely.

Mark's eyebrows knotted and his lips pursed, as if frustrated. "I'm alone." He repeated.

"Mark..." He was cut off when the phone rang.

He looked toward the other end of the room, just as Mark said in a cold yet nonchalant manner, "Let it screen."

Collins rolled his eyes, though concerned for Mark. "I know. I think I know by now that we don't pick up the phone."

_"SPEEEAAK."_

There was a beat of silence in which Mark cursed loudly, face scrunching into a painful wince at the sound of the voices, muttering, "We have to change that answering machine."

Collins frowned at Mark's anger, and he grimaced as Mark banged the chair against the table in aggravation, for the message began.

"Hey guys... fuck, why do I even bother to call if I already know you'll never pick up?"

"Roger?" Collins had walked slowly to the phone, grasping it in numbed fingers, his voice coming out tiny and surprised.

"Why so shocked, buddy?"

"Maybe because you haven't bothered to FUCKING call for MONTHS!" Mark shouted in Collins' direction, his sole purpose being for Roger to hear him on the other end.

"Tell Marky I apologize." Roger said after a small silence.

"Of course." Collins half-mouthed, dismissing it immediately. He absently noticed the soft hoarseness of Roger's voice, how different he sounded, in tone. "Shit, Roger... what's going on, man? It's been too fucking long..." Mark snorted at this remark. "How are you?"

Roger made a sound that resembled a small cough, but Collins suspected it was intended to be a sigh. "Roger?" He asked.

"Yeah?" Roger said, almost as if distracted. "Oh, I'm... well, you know. The usual."

Collins narrowed his eyes as Mark fell back into his seat, looking more than pissed. "The usual? How're things with the music?" Suspicion began to fill him.

"Fine." Collins sensed he was lying, and knew that Roger could hear his skepticism.

"Really? So what's the call for, man?"

Roger cleared his throat. "Listen, it's hard to explain. I need you here. Maureen and Joanne are already here, you know, and I can hardly begin to tell them..."

"Tell them what?" Collins asked, worried. He could sense that there was something more to what Roger was saying and the purpose for his call.

"Thomas." Roger said, and his voice was urgent. It unnerved Collins tremendously, because Roger never liked to ask anyone for anything.

"I want you to gather up Mark." Roger was saying. "Kicking and screaming if need be. Bring him here, to Santa Fe."

All the air in Collins' lungs blew out suddenly. "What? Are you fucking insane? Why?"

"I have this idea. And I need you all with me."

Mark, who could hear Roger's voice clearly still, got up and yelled, so Roger would hear, "Oh, NOW you need us with you! Now you want us to be together! Fuck you, Davis. We fucking needed you already... HERE."

Roger didn't indicate he'd heard Mark, but the silence that followed was reply enough.

Collins, for reasons he himself couldn't begin to understand, felt the importance of whatever Roger's situation was hit him. And he found himself replying without much hesitation, "Ok, Roger. Ok."

Roger chuckled. "Really? I was expecting to have to really convince you. Talk for awhile. Have you drag the details out of me."

Collins laughed. "Well, I do expect you to spill sometime. I'll beat the details out of you if I have to, when we get there." Idly, he wondered what exactly he was doing, even though it felt right.

"I know you will." Roger sighed tiredly. The phone fell into a jumble of incoherent shuffling as Collins heard what he could only guess was

Roger jostling the phone around. Whether it was intentional or accidental, he hardly knew.

What sounded like a muffled fit of coughing could be heard in the background.

"Roger?" Collins demanded into the phone. "You okay?"

More silence. Roger's voice, strained, replied weakly. "Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know…" Collins was confused.

"You worry too much, man. I feel great, actually."

Miles away, in Santa Fe, Roger felt the weight of those words hit him and he smiled, because for the first time in awhile, though it seemed unlikely, they were actually true.

* * *

:)

Soooooooooooo?

(bites nails)

Oh, I'm scared, did it suck?


	2. Playing Hooky

Wow, thank you all so much for your encouraging reviews!!

They really helped me gain a little confidence about this story. :D

I hope you all had a wonderful New Year's!

I have a few things I forgot to mention: this story was heavily inspired by the movie Life as a House by Mark Andrus. Think of this statement as my disclaimer. It applies to the whole story. And that goes for RENT, too. DON'T OWN.

Other random bit - Lena, the nurse in the last chapter, was named for Lena from the book _Song of Solomon._

AGAIN: VERY VERY IMPORTANT: This whole story/plot bunny was inspired heavily by the movie Life as a House. I don't own it. Or RENT actually. So consider this a disclaimer for the story. :)

* * *

_**NEW YORK**_

"Uncle Collins?" the young boy looked up from his scribbly crayon drawing. "Do you think that your friend Roger will like me?"

"Of course he'll like you." Collins said warmly, casting a glance toward his five year-old nephew. "Why wouldn't he like you?"

"I dunno." Elijah mumbled, pausing in thought and resting the green crayon against his chin. "I was just wondering."

"Are you nervous about going to Santa Fe, bud?" Collins asked seriously, flopping down beside him on the couch. "Because I thought you might like to go, rather than be bored all day in a hotel in Toronto while your mom's at her business conferences."

Elijah stuck his tongue out. "I want to go. I'm excited that I get to be with you all summer long!"

Collins chuckled. "Me too, Eli. And don't worry, there's nothing not to love about you. Roger will be charmed."

"I'm gonna give him this picture." He decided suddenly, holding it up for Collins to see. "See? It's the city! Here we are, here's the Life Cafe, that's the Empire State Building, and there's the Statue of Liberty."

"That's really good, man! I bet Roger would really appreciate that."

Eli's face lit up at his uncle's approval. "Okay! I'll put it in my bag!"

"Speaking of bags..." Collins trailed off, his eyes wandering over to the door to Mark's space. "Uh, hey Eli? Why don't you go make sure you didn't forget any of your toys you want to bring...? I could've sworn I saw your favorite truck and a couple other things lying around by the table..."

"Oh no! I have to bring that! And where's Fuffsy?"

"Who's Fuffsy?" Collins asked as he rose and stepped toward Mark's door.

"My bear!" Eli said determinedly. "Maybe I already packed him..." The little boy shrugged and scurried away.

Collins knocked on Mark's door then. "Mark?" The door creaked open.

There was a scramble as a box of film reels hit the floor and the contents went everywhere. "Oh sorry, man. I didn't mean to barge in and scare you. Let me help..."

Mark, face flushed, waved him off. "It's fine, I'll get it." Collins bent down to pick up a reel that had come to rest next to his shoe. "I _said_ I'll get it." Mark repeated, tone hardened significantly.

Collins' back straightened. "Ok." He put up his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry."

Mark harrumphed quietly as he threw the reels into the box and shoved it violently under his bed. He then reached for his blue and white-striped scarf, slowly disengaging it from the chair it was lazily wound around.

"Mark... I know you like that scarf a whole lot, but we're going somewhere hot." Collins remarked, as he tried to lighten the mood, a chuckle building in his throat. "You aren't going to need that."

"I don't want to go." Mark replied suddenly and resolutely.

"Mark..." Collins began, the chuckle becoming a lump as he was unsure what to say.

"No, Collins!" Mark turned toward his friend, face livid. "I don't... I don't want to see him, don't want to talk to him... I don't. I can't."

"You don't mean that," Collins' voice had gone soft, escaping as a small breath.

"Oh, but I do. That's the thing." Mark continued, "I don't want to go, to do what he wants. Indulge his wishes. He left us, Collins." There was a pause, and Mark kicked the box further into the abyss beneath the wilting bedframe. "Fucking left us!"

"Mark, you know Roger... he runs from things, Mimi died... it was hard..."

"Don't make excuses for him." Mark sighed tiredly. "That's all he ever did, was make excuses."

"But Mark..." Collins said gently.

"No..." Mark interrupted, shaking his head. "I fucking know how hard it was. You don't think Mimi dying was hard on me too?"

"Well, it was hard on all of us, man. But Roger... he's..." Collins tried.

"He's a sellout." Mark said coldly. "Just what he never wanted to be. He's out there in fucking Santa Fe living his dream... he's out there putting out records, making money... he abandoned us."

"Mark..." Collins found himself speechless.

"He abandoned me." Mark's hurt voice amended almost noiselessly, shaking his head. "We were _supposed_ to be _best friends_. That meant nothing to him, I guess. And he just... left."

"I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt you, Mark. He was just in pain. He must regret that now."

"Too fucking bad." Mark spat. "He barely ever calls. He's evidently moved on. Well... so have I. I've accepted it."

Collins closed the distance between them, looking Mark in the eye. "Obviously that's not true, or you wouldn't be so upset about this, man." Mark glared. "All I'm saying is… give this a chance. We could probably use this. It'll be almost like having the whole family together again. Just think of it."

"Somehow I doubt it'll be all peaches and cream." Mark said in a scornful tone.

"Mark." Collins said seriously. "What happened months ago... that's over now. It's time to move forward."

Mark merely shook his head, throwing the scarf haphazardly into his suitcase.

"Come with me and Elijah to Santa Fe. See Maureen and Joanne. See Roger. And for fuck's sake, at least have a civil conversation with him. I mean it, Mark. I'm not going to be out there breaking up bitchfits."

Not even the hint of a smile crossed Mark's lips. He looked away.

"You want to go. Don't you?" Collins concluded abruptly, after a beat of pure silence.

"What?" Mark spun around defensively, an angry glint in his eyes. "Fuck, Collins, were you not listening these past few minutes? I don't, I fucking don't!"

"Yes, you do."

"Oh..." Mark scoffed. "And what, Professor Collins, led you to this idea?"

"You packed your bag didn't you?" And Collins walked out, the door sticking in the lock with a painful click as he exited.

* * *

_**SANTA FE**_

Roger stared quietly at the shattered remains of the framed single cover. Sprawled silently in the chaise lounge on the small porch, he cast an approving eye at the large stack of wood nearby, just waiting to be put to good use. Then he scanned the street, watching for his expected arrival.

He'd called Maureen's cell phone about a half hour earlier and left a short message saying that they should go out to lunch and he had a lot to tell her.

Sure enough, Joanne's silver station wagon pulled up the road and halted before the sidewalk, and out stepped Maureen. It was clear she'd tanned significantly since they'd last seen each other in person, and her hair was cut shorter.

"I tried to call you! Three times, you dumbfuck!" She shouted brazenly to him as she approached. She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips. "What did you think you were doing? Playing hooky all of a sudden? You just vanished! You could have died!"

"I could have." Roger smiled gently and reflectively at her. "I knew it was okay that I ran out of coffee and couldn't have a cup this morning. Your voice is better at that sort of thing anyway." He looked up at her, and she was, predictably, frowning. "Thank for waking me up. And uh... picking me up too."

He stood, and she let her hands fall to her sides, noticing the frame. "What's that?"

"Trash." He said suddenly, and he pitched it into the metal can, enjoying the clang it made hitting the inside.

She was about to inquire further when they were interrupted by the loud barking of a yellow labrador. Bounding around the side of the house from the backyard, the dog climbed the steps to the porch and nearly collided with Maureen, covering her in sloppy kisses. "Aww, hey Fender!" Maureen hugged the dog, rubbing his fur lovingly. "What's stupid Roger been up to? I bet you'll tell me."

"Nope. He's sworn into secrecy. It's part of the man's best friend deal." Roger insisted.

"Will you at least tell me over lunch where the hell you were for four days?"

He looked at her, wanting to tell her everything, but the words died somewhere deep inside him. "I can't. Sorry."

Maureen's eyes flickered in anger as she registered this as dry sarcasm. "Why not? I was so worried! Joanne and I both... and I... I… you… you're ridiculous...! You're inconsiderate and absolutely devoid of emotion!" She told him dramatically.

He didn't even flinch. "And you are one of the most remarkable women I have ever known, Maureen Johnson."

She stopped rooting around in her purse for her eyes and looked up, stumped momentarily. Roger bit his lip, realizing that his words had confused her.

"What?" She laughed awkwardly.

"Even your anger... it's just remarkable." He quickly turned it around into a joke, cursing himself for being so sentimental with her. _Damn it, what the hell is wrong with me? ...besides that I'm dying?_

She instantly forgot his slip-up, and laughed. "You, Roger Davis, are truly an asshole."

"Thank you, my dear." He told her, half-bowing, and speaking in a partial accent. "Now... shall we go to lunch?"

"I'm anxious to hear what exactly you want to talk to me about..." She told him. "Even if it may not be what I really want to hear from you."

_What you want to hear... _Roger thought. _If you only knew how much worse the answers to YOUR questions were, Maureen._

* * *

**_LATER_**

"You enjoy the food?" He asked her as they walked.

"Delicious." She said decidedly. "You didn't eat much, Roger... and you're so skinny lately."

He ignored her worried gaze. "I... uh... I wasn't that hungry."

"Haha... Roger Davis... not hungry? Is this the same idiot who ate a whole bag of chips out of my cupboard and blamed it on Angel?"

Roger laughed hoarsely at the memory. He was glad when she didn't seem to notice the rattling in his breath.

"Seriously, Roger. Angel? You can't blame shit like that on people like Angel! How stupid are you?" He laughed again. "Tell me something. This proposal of yours, I mean. I have accepted this… this _favor_. You want to stay in our spare room, and I've said ok, no questions asked... and the two pull-out sofas can go to Mark and Collins, there's a cot for Elijah... but why? It's all so suspicious, Roger. I know you want out of your place, for some reason you've always been miserable in it. So what... are you burning it down? Just why are Mark and Collins coming anyway?" She looked at him, eyes stricken with curiosity.

He sighed softly, hoping that if he told her, maybe she'd completely forget her desire to know the real reason for his disappearance. "I have an idea. A...uh...project, I guess you could call it. I need their help. And uh, yours if you want. Maybe even Joanne's. Yes, definitely Joanne's."

"Oooh..." She said warily. "Another scheme cooked up by the nefarious Roger Davis?" After a pause, she grinned. "I'm so in."

He chuckled, smiling teasingly. "But you can't know what it is until they get here."

"What?" She whined. "That's so unfair! Come on, at least give me a hint." She tugged at his shirt, demanding.

"Nope. Sorry. You have to wait." He answered bluntly.

"I fucking _hate_ surprises." She grumbled.

"Watch your language, missy. If Collins is bringing a youngster around, you'd better learn to censor yourself."

"Oh, I'll censor you." She threatened angrily.

"No thanks, don't you think Joanne might be jealous?"

She gasped. "Shut up, Roger!"

They laughed again as they stopped their walk up the path from the car, right in front of his porch yet again. Fender was lying in a large golden-colored lump, asleep in front of the door.

"I didn't think you'd know I went missing." Roger told her suddenly.

"Oh, you mean you didn't think I'd come snooping around after you didn't call me back and break into your house, and then check the message on your answering machine, and find one from your boss about him getting you a year's salary and health benefits after you are... 'let go'?"

He winced, and she put a hand on his shoulder. "Roger, where have you been for the past week?"

"Four days." He corrected her. Then, lying through his teeth, he replied. "I... uh... left. To think."

She nodded slowly. "Oh yeah? And what about Fender?"

"I always give him enough food and water to survive a nuclear bomb. And you know he has a door flap to go outside..." He explained lamely, trailing off.

"And you couldn't at least call me or Joanne to let us know that's what you were doing?"

"I'm sorry, I guess I wasn't thinking." He fumbled. "I'm sorry; I just didn't think to call you while I thought... I think." Roger shook his head and laughed awkwardly.

She giggled softly, but suddenly went silent before asking seriously. "Roger, what's the project?"

He took a breath. "I'm going to tear down this ugly shack. Make it a public, commercial property. A restaurant."

Her eyebrows shot into her hair, but a smile grew on her face. "But... you guys always used to talk about something like that. With Angel... before..."

"There's nothing stopping me now. I'll have the money. I can do it."

Her eyes were sparkling, excitement growing within her. "Where will you live? After you stay in our spare room of course."

"I'll...uh... figure something out." He turned his head away as he said this. He hated himself for lying to her.

"Look, this whole thing... with Mark and Collins and Elijah and all of us together... it sounds crazy... just fucking unreal." A smile spread across her cheeks. "But I wouldn't miss it for a threesome in a porn store!"

He chuckled and she sat down on one of the chairs on the porch, as he seated himself in the chaise lounge again. "When will they get here?"

"Friday." Roger said. "They're driving. They'll never want to ride in a car again. I suppose I'll have to let them rest up for awhile, and then... I'll put them to work." She laughed.

"Maureen, they're cheap labor. I'm serious."

"We're going to open up a restaurant...?" She said in disbelief. "I mean, with actual construction.... building it from scratch? Damn, one of us will end up dead."

He couldn't meet her eyes then. "At least we'd have a restaurant to show for it. A real restaurant."

"A blaze of glory in the restaurant business, huh?" She teased. "Sounds fun. Don't worry about me, Rog. I'll survive. Mark on the other hand..." She covered her mouth with a hand, stifling giggles. "Mark... construction? Something doesn't connect. I don't know though, maybe he'll surprise me with some hidden strength."

Roger chuckled halfheartedly. "He doesn't have to help, if he doesn't want to, I suppose. I just want him here with me."

"No, you don't." Maureen sighed, voice swiftly turning into a soft and sad whisper. "Trust me."

"I do." Roger smiled, hoping she could tell he was sincere. "It'll be hard, I know he's pissed as hell and probably hates me... but I have to do this."

"I understand." Maureen told him, nodding. _No... you don't._ And with that, she rose, gathering her bag up. "Well... I should go... Joanne will wonder."

Roger stood, sweeping her into a hug. She tensed at first, and then relaxed, obviously not expecting the gesture, but accepting it. "See you." He said softly.

"All right, let go of me, Davis. I'm taken." She teased. Then with a wiggle of her fingers, she set off down the path, got into the car, and departed.

* * *

**Well, I'm not sure how soon this'll be updated. These chapters take longer to churn out than humorous stuff, so it might be a little while.**

**Plus... I'M SEEING ADAM AND ANTHONY IN RENT ON THE 10TH!!!!!!!!!!**

**(dies)**

**Sorry, I have to keep repeating it over and over to remember that it's really true. AAAAH!**

**Anyway. Let me know what you thought of this installment, please!!**


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